'Retribution', Segment III

New York (the present)

“Enough. The fubu muban.”

I point. My qiufan’s fingers release her lips, hands returning to the back of her bald head. She turns and prances on toes. I have trained her to approach torture with eagerness, whether feigned or real. It pleases me. Indeed in moving to the horizontal board of smoothly polished oak, hanging waist high from cables, her motion appears to be that of a child frolicking in a school yard.  

She kneels, bending over, her stomach resting on the oak... thus the implement of torture is named fubu muban... belly board. 

I work with deliberation, there is no rush to bring pain. It will be long, my agonizing efforts to occupy a good part of the afternoon. Thus the bucket of cold water waiting to revive a qiufan brought to delirium by the endless suffering.  

Rope and hollow lengths of bamboo to start. On the belly board I work the joints, stretching the ligaments. As I place an eight inch length of bamboo behind the left knee, my qiufan knows to cooperate. Resistance is futile. She bends her leg, lifting her foot, heel to her buttock, entrapping the bamboo. I tie rope about the leg, encircling the upper thigh and the foot. Not tight, not loose, the bamboo becomes entrapped behind the knee  Through the hollowness of the bamboo I thread a length of rope, pulling the two ends up and tying off above at a ceiling cable behind. As I work the right leg, I glance to my client, observing with fascination, intrigued that my qiufan would so facilely submit to my efforts.

It was not always so. The first time I tortured the woman required much effort.

Right leg bent, bamboo in place, leg and thigh encircled, rope threaded through and tied off behind. The ropes force my qiufan to widely part her thighs, opening her sex for visual examination... and more of course. And my client is correct, with my qiufan’s excitement and lacking hygiene, the odor of her opened vagina again fills the room air.

Such embarrassment. 

I move to the arms. A length of bamboo at the elbow of an offered left arm, rope secures such in place encircling the bent arm at the biceps and wrist. I thread again rope through the hollow bamboo, the two ends are pulled upwards tying off above at the left cable supporting the board. The right arm follows.

In completing, my qiufan kneels, arms and legs bent, bamboo at the joints, rope holding such in place. She is immobile but for her head.

I slowly circle about, building the apprehension, checking the many ties.

“Have you eaten recently, qiufan? Are you going to vomit for me? You know what happens if you do. You may speak.”

“Yes, I know, my shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe. I have not eaten.”

“Good. I think a nostril binding will help you in your surrender to me,” my hands tenderly rubbing her bald head, a finger tapping her nose. “Would like to be so bound? You may speak.”

There is silence. No reply. My qiufan trembles knowing of the intense pain and frustration of such a restraint. Finally there comes a reply.

“If it pleases you, kuxing zhe.”    

“It will. And you want to please.”

I step away, returning with a cord. On one end are attached curved metal implements, similar in shape to fish hooks but with bulbous lumps rather than sharp points. Such are inserted into the nostrils, the free end of the cord tied off above. The head shall not move. The discomfort brings tears which I gently brush away.

“You may sing for me, qiufan... for my client. Much time and money expended in sound proofing my xingxun shi.” (torture chamber).

I move to the door, closing, the interior surface covered with sound absorbing foam. Inside the room’s walls, beneath decorative paneling, is similar material. Such a difference from Guangdong prison where prisoner’s songs could be heard throughout the facility.

Next I step to a wall switch. Though not pertinent to the torture, suspension greatly enhances the sense of helplessness... and thus my power as kuxing zhe. I flip. The fubu muban rises, the cables lifting the board and my qiufan off the floor. Not by much, just a few inches. But as I said, the presentation is one of vulnerability. My qiufan’s gift of submission begins.